"You are M. Coquenil," she whispered.
"You saw it?" he asked uneasily.
She shook her head. "I knew it."
"Ah!" with relief. "Does he know?"
The girl's hands closed convulsively while the pupils of her eyes widened and then grew small. "I'm afraid so," she murmured, and then added these singular words: "He knows everything."
M. Paul laid a soothing hand on her arm and said kindly: "Are you afraid of him?"
"Ye-es." Her voice was almost inaudible.
"Is he planning something?"
For a moment Alice hesitated, biting her red lips, then with a quick impulse, she lifted her dark eyes to Coquenil. "I must tell you, I have no one else to tell, and I am so distressed, so—so afraid." She caught his hands pleadingly in hers, and he felt that they were icy cold.
"I'll protect you, that's what I'm here for," he assured her, "but go on, speak quickly. What is he planning?"
"He's planning to take me away, away from Paris, I'm sure he is. I overheard him just now telling Mother Bonneton to pack my trunk. He says he will spend three or four days in Paris, but that may not be true, he may go at once to-night. You can't believe him or trust him, and, if he takes me away, I—I may never come back."
"He won't take you away," said M. Paul reassuring, "that is, he won't if—See here, you trust me?"
"Oh, yes."
"You'll do exactly what I tell you, exactly, without asking how or why?"
"I will," she declared.
"You're a plucky little girl," he said as he met her unflinching look. "Let me think a moment," and he turned back and forth in the hall, brows contracted, hands deep in his pockets. "I have it!" he exclaimed presently, his face brightening. "Now listen," and speaking slowly and distinctly, the detective gave Alice precise instructions, then he went over them again, point by point.
"Are you sure you understand?" he asked finally.
"Yes, I understand and I will do what you tell me," she answered firmly, "but——"
"Well?"
"It will bring trouble on you. If anyone stands in his way—" She shivered in alarm.
Coquenil smiled confidently. "Don't worry about me."
She shook her head anxiously. "You don't know, you can't understand what a"—she stopped as if searching for a word—"what a wicked man he is."
"I understand—a little," answered Coquenil gravely; "you can tell me more when we have time; we mustn't talk now, we must act."
"Yes, of course," agreed Alice, "I will obey orders; you can depend on me and"—she held out her slim hand in a grateful movement—"thank you."
For a moment he pressed the trembling fingers in a reassuring clasp, then he watched her wonderingly, as, with a brave little smile, she turned and went back up the stairs.
"She has the air of a princess, that girl," he mused, "Who is she? What is she? I ought to know in a few hours now," and moving to the wide space of the open door, the detective glanced carelessly over the Place Notre-Dame.
It was about two o'clock, and under a dazzling sun the trees and buildings of the square were outlined on the asphalt in sharp black shadows. A 'bus lumbered sleepily over the bridge with three straining horses. A big yellow-and-black automobile throbbed quietly before the hospital. Some tourists passed, mopping red faces. A beggar crouched in the shade near the entrance to the cathedral, intoning his woes. Coquenil took out his watch and proceeded to wind it slowly. At which the beggar dragged himself lazily out of his cool corner and limped across the street.
"A little charity, kind gentleman," he whined as he came nearer.
"In here, Papa Tignol," beckoned Coquenil; "there's something new. It's all right, I've fixed the doorkeeper."
And a moment later the two associates were talking earnestly near the doorkeeper's lodge.
Meantime, Alice, with new life in her heart, was putting on her best dress and hat as Groener had bidden her, and presently she joined her cousin in the salon where he sat smoking a cheap cigar and finishing his talk with Mother Bonneton.
"Ah," he said, "are you ready?" And looking at her more closely, he added: "Poor child, you've been crying. Wait!" and he motioned Mother Bonneton to leave them.
"Now," he began kindly, when the woman had gone, "sit down here and tell me what has made my little cousin unhappy."
He spoke in a pleasant, sympathetic tone, and the girl approached him as if trying to overcome an instinctive shrinking, but she did not take the offered chair, she simply stood beside it.
"It's only a little thing," she answered with an effort, "but I was afraid you might be displeased. What time is it?"
He looked at his watch. "Twenty minutes to three."
"Would you mind very much if we didn't start until five or ten minutes past three?"
"Why—er—what's the matter?"
Alice hesitated, then with pleading eyes: "I've been troubled about different things lately, so I spoke to Father Anselm yesterday and he said I might come to him to-day at a quarter to three."
"You mean for confession?"
"Yes."
"I see. How long does it take?"
"Fifteen or twenty minutes."
"Will it make you feel happier?"
"Oh, yes, much happier."
"All right," he nodded, "I'll wait."
"Thank you, Cousin Adolf," she said eagerly. "I'll hurry right back; I'll be here by ten minutes past three."
He eyed her keenly. "You needn't trouble to come back, I'll go to the church with you."
"And wait there?" she asked with a shade of disappointment.
"Yes," he answered briefly.
There was nothing more to say, and a few minutes later Alice, anxious-eyed but altogether lovely in flower-spread hat and a fleecy pink gown, entered Notre-Dame followed by the wood carver.
"Will you wait here, cousin, by my little table?" she asked sweetly.
"You seem anxious to get rid of me," he smiled.
"No, no," she protested, but her cheeks flushed; "I only thought this chair would be more comfortable."
"Any chair will do for me," he said dryly. "Where is your confessional?"
"On the other side," and she led the way down the right aisle, past various recessed chapels, past various confessional boxes, each bearing the name of the priest who officiated there. And presently as they came to a confessional box in the space near the sacristy Alice pointed to the name, "Father Anselm."
"There," she said.
"Is the priest inside?"
"Yes." And then, with a new idea: "Cousin Adolf," she whispered, "if you go along there back of the choir and down a little stairway, you will come to the treasure room. It might interest you."
He looked at her in frank amusement. "I'm interested already. I'll get along very nicely here. Now go ahead and get through with it."
The girl glanced about her with a helpless gesture, and then, sighing resignedly, she entered the confessional. Groener seated himself on one of the little chairs and leaned back with a satisfied chuckle. He was so near the confessional that he could hear a faint murmur of voices—Alice's sweet tones and then the priest's low questions.
Five minutes passed, ten minutes! Groener looked at his watch impatiently. He heard footsteps on the stone of the choir,